


two steps ahead

by RadioFreeHayden



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, The only kind of fic I know how to write is short and sickeningly sweet and this is not an exception, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 20:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20431649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadioFreeHayden/pseuds/RadioFreeHayden
Summary: How to write a Caleb/Adam fic:1. Project your own insecurities and issues onto one (or both!) of them2. Add about 1,000 "dude"s and "babe"s3. Mix well, bake at 350 F, serve while warm





	two steps ahead

Adam is going to fall apart at any second. He’s been working on this presentation for hours, and it’s still not what he wants it to be. He knows that not everything he does can be perfect, but he’s supposed to be good at this, damn it. 

He keeps going to certain slides, changing a sentence, then changing it back because the new one is bad, then changing it again because the old sentence is bad too, then deleting the whole slide and rapidly hitting undo so that he doesn’t actually lose all of his shitty work. 

Finally, he shuts his laptop and buries his head in his hands. He knows he’s overreacting, but he can’t seem to break himself out of this stupid fucking cycle. Everything about the whole project is wrong in some inarticulable way, and he doesn’t know how to fix it and _he’s supposed to be good at this. ___

_ __ _

He’s so fucking tired of trying to be exceptional. He’s a smart kid, he’s so bright, he’s a fucking pleasure to have in class, Dr. Hayes. It’s just so fucking exhausting, trying to keep up with his own expectations of himself. And sometimes he just wants to stop. Stop trying to be some kind of prodigy and just be a normal high schooler. But if he does that, what’s left? If he’s not a fucking genius, there’s nothing special about him. And Adam knows he shouldn’t base his whole sense of worth on his intelligence, but it’s hard to remember that when he feels like this.  


He reaches for his phone.  
  
  


Twenty minutes later, Adam gets hit in the face with a pebble. So, naturally, he looks towards the direction the pebble came from, and promptly gets hit with another pebble that flies through his window.

He walks over to the window, and, of course, sees Caleb standing below, prepared to throw another pebble. 

“Babe. What the fuck.”

“I thought your window was gonna be closed!” Caleb yells. 

“Oh my god.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re such a fucking sap. Why didn’t you just use the door like a normal person?”

“It’s locked.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Caleb says, “so I figured I’d just go all teen rom-com on you and throw pebbles at your window, and it’s not my fault you happened to get hit in the face.”

“It literally is,” Adam says. “Come on, I’ll let you in.”

Adam walks downstairs and pulls open the front door. Caleb’s standing on the porch, holding a box of brownies.

Adam grins. “You brought me brownies?”

Caleb shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah, it’s just the storebought kind . . . I would have baked some myself but I don’t think my parents even trust me to use a microwave at this point . . .”  
“How is it even possible to mess up boxed mac n cheese that badly?”

“Listen,” Caleb says. “It was . . . shut up. And can I come inside? It’s fucking cold out here.”

* * *

“These are surprisingly good,” Adam says, reaching for another brownie. “You didn’t have to do this though, babe.”

“Of course I did,” Caleb says. “And don’t feel like . . . well, I can’t tell you how to feel, but you’re not a burden. Not ever. Do you know that?”

“I . . . it doesn’t feel like that,” Adam says. “You should be out doing something fun, and instead you’re sitting on my bedroom floor feeling miserable because I can’t get my shit together. And I know we’ve had this conversation a thousand times, but there’s still a part of me that’s always worried that one day you’ll realize that this isn’t what you want. That I’m not worth the effort.”

“Bullshit,” Caleb says. “Adam, there’s literally nowhere I’d rather be than with you.That’s your depression talking, and I’m a way more credible source.”

Adam snorts and leans his head onto Caleb’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

They’re quiet for a minute, then Caleb says, “So. This presentation.”

Adam sighs. “This presentation.”

“What’s it about?”

Adam sits up. “It’s about Hamlet. Well, it’s about Ophelia, and like . . . you know how people always romanticise the hell out of her death?”

Caleb shrugs. “Sure.”

“You know, like all the paintings of her with her lying all serenely in a lake because her death is just so beautifully tragic or whatever—it’s all bullshit. That scene where she’s singing about flowers and everything, it’s not some sort of beautiful madness, it’s a woman who’s fucking sick of being treated like an object. Her death was like, the one thing that she did, for herself, not because of some man, and then a bunch of men went and turned it into some sort of fucked up fantasy. Her death isn’t supposed to be beautiful, it’s supposed to be messy and ugly and _hers_, and—what?” He cuts off, noticing the stupid grin on Caleb’s face. __

_ __ _

_ __ _

“You’re _so cute_ when you get worked up about literature.”__

_ __ _

_ __ _

“Right, because nothing says ‘hot’ like going on a huge rant about Shakespeare.”

“Shut up,” Caleb says. “You’re adorable, you dork.”

“Meathead,” Adam mutters. “I love you.”

Caleb leans over and presses a kiss to Adam’s forehead. “I love you too.”


End file.
